"You haven't been playing either," Cardozo said. "You two let me down. I only joined the department to listen to your compositions. Variations on a Bach theme adapted for snare drum and piccolo. That used to make me happy."
De Gier hit the side of the drum, alternating sharp raps with more scratching of cymbals. He whistled some high notes. "Was that the theme?"
"Yeh," Cardozo said, "it gets sad later. First you build up a good strong rhythm and then suddenly there are all these moody notes."
"Better wait for Grijpstra to come back, then." De Gier dropped the sticks. "I'm much too cheerful on my own. Come along, colleague." He opened the door. "After you."
"Where to?"
"There's a shortage of officers this morning," de Gier said. "Lead me to a cafe of my choice. It's your turn to pay. I won't do any work until the commissaris returns this afternoon and hands out orders."
\\\\\ 4 /////
The Commissaris, limping through an endless corridor on the top floor of the Police Headquarters Building, wondered whether anyone remembered that he could have been chief constable himself. When honors are turned down, they're usually forgotten. Many of the officers he had gotten close to in some way had retired during the last few years. The previous chief constable was a good older friend who was asked by the mayor to sound out the commissaris about the offered promotion. The commissaris hadn't given a reason for his refusal then, for he was talking to an officer he was asked to replace. To say that the job wasn't interesting enough might have sounded impolite. A chief constable doesn't hunt; a chief of detectives does. The commissaris preferred to remain out in the open. He found the door he was looking for, and knocked. A green light flashed on.
"Had a good holiday?" the chief constable asked. "Care to sit down? Coffee, perhaps?"
"No, thank you, sir, I haven't been to my office yet."
The commissaris looked at his superior, finding the man hard to define. Polite, smooth, well-dressed, of course, no characteristics that stood out. Maybe that was why he had climbed so high in little time. "To float upward because of lack of weight," the commissaris's father had been fond of saying when he discussed the careers of others. Perhaps. He had to be careful, the commissaris told himself. Jealousy always makes judgment murky.
"Whatever happened during your absence has been properly taken care of," the chief constable said. "Did you hear about the terrorist? That came off rather well."
"There was a victim on our side?" the commissaris asked.
"Unfortunately." The chief constable nodded sadly. "Not a life-threatening wound, but in the face, I'm afraid. Plastic surgery will be required."
"Anyone I know?"
"I forget his name. A young detective."
"Ah," the commissaris said. "See you later, sir."
He undertook the long walk back to the elevator, thinking that he should perhaps be using his cane again. The cane was too conspicuous, however. It might alert the authorities to his infirmity. The rheumatism was improving somewhat lately. The Austrian baths didn't help, of course, but his wife always had such a good time in Bad Gastein. She liked fashionable resorts. And the commissaris was supposed to like calling on his retired brother who lived peacefully in a luxurious chalet in the Austrian Alps. They would invariably discuss old times. The commissaris preferred discussing new times, but there weren't any for his older brother. Reminiscences. The commissaris scowled. Would he be analyzing the past too, soon? His retirement crept closer every day. He still enjoyed the present.
A uniformed officer walked by, saluting politely. "Glad to have you back, sir."
"Yes," said the commissaris. He stopped and turned. "Halba?"
The officer stopped and turned.
"I was reading the paper in the plane this morning. Seems you've been quite busy. Do you have time to see me later this afternoon? Bring me up to date?"
"Certainly, sir," Chief Inspector Halba said. "Will sometime around five be in order? The mayor wants to see me this afternoon, about the terrorists. Bit of a celebration. That's why I'm in uniform. The press is invited. Perhaps you might care to come, too."
"Awfully kind," the commissaris mumbled. "But not really, I think. Haven't seen my men yet, you know. Are they all back now?"
Halba's eyes glinted behind his rimless glasses. "Haven't seen them sir. They don't like to report to my office. I was meaning to mention that to you. Sergeant de Gier especially seems to be rather, ah, 'self-willed' is the word? I realize I'm new to the brigade, but a bit of respect for rank…"
"Quite," the commissaris said. "See you at five then, Halba. My regards to the mayor."
In the elevator down, the commissaris realized who Halba reminded him of. Memories of the war had flashed back. The commissaris, then a junior police officer unwilling to cooperate with the German occupation forces, had been jailed for a good while. He was rightly suspected of being a member of the resistance. Being somewhat skilled in the art of interrogation himself, he had managed to plead innocence, but one of the Gestapo officers didn't give up. Hen Leutnant visited his prey daily in a dank cell. The German officer had all furniture removed from his prisoner's quarters and the floor flooded with an inch of dirty water. The prisoner was given a bit of bread each day and nothing to drink, so he drank from the floor. He also lay on the floor. His rheumatism started up during that painful period. Physically, the German from the past and the chief inspector from the present had little in common, but there was something about the way they both talked, showing their front teeth when they smiled. Yes, the commissaris thought grimly, two smart rodents, each from a different species.
He reached his office. His secretary was already there and put herself in his way. Surprised, the commissaris extended a hand. She pecked him on the cheek.
"Miss Antoinette," the commissaris exclaimed, feeling the small moist spot her lips had left.
She smiled. "You can kiss me too." She bent down.
"Modern times," the commissaris grumbled.
"Mere politeness," Miss Antoinette said. "Working relationships have changed, you know. Go on, sir, it doesn't hurt."
He kissed her cheek quickly and escaped behind his desk.
"You don't find me distasteful?" Miss Antoinette asked.
The commissaris shook his head energetically.
"Don't I look like your wife?"
The commissaris thought.
"I do," Miss Antoinette said. "When she came here and when we walked downstairs together, the doorman thought I was her daughter."
"You're the same size," the commissaris agreed. He gave in and smiled. "I like your new outfit. Very businesslike, yet charming."
She turned around. "I bought it because I wanted to fit in. You have such a distinguished office. Did you notice I polished your desk and the cupboard? Don't the lions that support your table shine? All your furniture is sixteenth-century oak, isn't it?"
"The plants look good too," the commissaris said. "You must have taken good care of them. Have you seen Adjutant Grijpstra and the sergeant?"
"They were inquiring after you, sir. The sergeant is a nuisance."
The commissaris reached for the silver thermos flask on his desk. Miss Antoinette was quicker. "I'll pour your coffee, sir, It's special. I bought beans and ground them myself."
"Delicious," the commissaris said. "You're spoiling me, dear. The sergeant is after you?"
"He makes advances."
"You want me to speak to him? I thought he was still enamored of Constable First Class Jane."
"Jane says he's good," Miss Antoinette said. "Aren't you going to Chief Inspector Halba's press party this afternoon?"
The commissaris shook his head. "How's the wounded detective doing?"